Every person who I passed
stood stiff with their eyes downcast.
In their step there was no pride;
they talked as if they tried to hide.
To be seen there was their great fear;
the wrath of God ever hovered near.
This is the terror of the poor
who grovel there but get no more.
Instead they live in growing fear
as their name calling comes near.
The fear some bureaucratic twit
will cut them off or give them shit.
A single stroke of some pricks pen
can cut them off both there and then.
With future’s never being known,
how can we hope their spirit’s grown
since last they faced the Inquisition
that sent them on their pointless mission
to get a job that does not exist;
but still we say they must persist.
But business needs the jobless throng
kept in the place where they belong.
They give a fear to those employed
that we too could be ‘dedeployed’
to face our time upon the queue
while they bring in a victim new
to walk a while with eyes of fear;
of threats the bosses keep quite near.
The pen, the whip of choice today;
a weapon with which they can play
on all our needs and all our fears
as the man with the red pen nears.